Scareship_Issue8

that a drink, a rest and maybe some bar peanuts would do a body
real good right now. The sky is dark and large and empty, and he’ll
be peddling through the lonely night streets, but regardless of the
creepy factor, he knows he’s in no danger. Which has its own
creepy factor.
Pretzels will do nicely, he decides once inside, and grabs
them, along with a beer. He sits at the bar and opens the plastic bag
and briefly there are people all around him, and a girl behind the
bar who pushes a drink toward him and says, “Another
Manhattan.” Then he’s back in an empty bar, his breath building
up harder and faster, like a train pounding down a track toward a
dangerous curve.
* * *
Cheri can’t remember the last time she wasn’t tired. Damn it,
people, move a little, let me on the damned train. The subway
lurches into motion and the man behind her pushes deliberately up
against her ass, and she deliberately trods on his foot, and they
both apologize. He is grimacing, so she wins.
The train stops for an inordinate amount of time at two
stations, and the conductors don’t bother informing them why, and
so of course she is late for work. She is never late for work, she is
always early. She prides herself on that. She bustles in through the
front door and smiles at Ted and says, “Sorry, train problems.” He
grunts and turns away, a pouting bear of a man, mean and tough
and thin-skinned, whose ass she would fire in a second—if it were
up to her. Toby, the owner, heard her out once on this, nodding and
looking at least somewhat sympathetic, and when she finally ran
down into silence, asked her if she was OK, and she was, and he
said, “Deal with it,” and that was that. It’s his bar. Customers come
back for the barmaids, not the bouncers, but hey, it’s all right, she
can deal.
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